


How to Snuggle with Your Time Lady in 5 Easy Steps

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In case you hadn't noticed, we <i>are</i> in your bedroom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tenacious_err](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenacious_err/gifts).



> \- aka, _five times river and the doctor cuddle, and one time they don't._  
>  \- i really wish this title weren't my fault. but it is. forgive me. 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day!

It should surprise him, he knows, to see her there, curled up on _his_ bed in _his_ room on _his_ TARDIS. He should probably be a bit disgruntled, or at least grudgingly intrigued as to how she knows where his room is located. But she looks so peaceful, legs tucked near her chest and her hair fanned out over the pillow; she's still in her clothes, her belt and holster discarded on the far nightstand. Her shoes are off, and she's wearing socks over her cut-off leggings. 

Socks. River Song in socks. 

He shakes his head, smiling, and closes the door softly behind him. He hesitates, standing in the middle of his room awkwardly, wondering if he should wake her and how, if he should let her sleep, if she really is sleeping - he thought he saw her breathing change, but he might have imagined it (her chest is _very_ distracting). To keep himself from pacing, he moves to sit on the edge of the bed near her waist. He stares straight ahead for a moment, as still as possible, then glances at her over his shoulder. She's facing him, one hand tucked under her head, the other palm up a few inches away. He wants to touch her, suddenly. Stroke his fingers over hers, feel her pulse in her wrist, trace the veins up her arms. He wants to brush her hair back from her face and study her like a museum piece. 

Hesitantly, he touches a finger to her palm. 

Her breathing changes instantly and she shifts, eyes fluttering open. He pulls his hand back quickly.

"Morning," he says, though it comes out much softer than he intended. 

Half asleep, River manages a slight roll of her eyes before pressing her cheek further into the pillow. "It's not morning. It's never morning on the TARDIS."

The Doctor looks mildly affronted and straightens his jacket primly. "Unless I want it to be. Then I can have all the mornings I want."

Muffled: "Oh, really?"

He hesitates. "Well. If she lets me, of course," he admits. "But she usually does. She likes mornings - breakfast mostly. You can have anything for breakfast! Pancakes, eggs, bacon, cereal, toast, Jammie Dodgers--"

"For breakfast?"

He gives her a short glare. "Jammie Dodgers are always appropriate." 

"Unless you're looking for nutrients," she mumbles. 

The Doctor affects a pout, mumbling a grudging, "Yes, well…" and she smiles, propping herself up on her elbow and placing a hand gently on his knee. He starts, then quickly relaxes and shoots her an apologetic smile. 

"So. Where are we?" 

"Just left Ona in the Dundra System," he says, tearing his eyes away from her hand, "Gorgeous planet, half sand, half water, everything made out of clay! You'd have loved it," he says proudly. "You could have dug for stuff."

River stifles a laugh and arches an eyebrow. " 'Dug for stuff' ?"

"Isn't that what you archaeologists do?"

There's enough innuendo in her tone to make him blush, and her fingers making soft spiral patterns on his knee doesn't help matters. "Oh, we do a lot more than dig, sweetie."

Swallowing tightly, he looks away quickly and fiddles with his jacket sleeves. "Oh, yes, I forgot, you write down what you dug up."

"Oh, shut up."

He grins. "Never."

River smiles and shakes her head fondly. "So who did you run from this time, dare I ask?"

"No running!" he grumbles, "It's not always running, I'll have you know. There's a good deal of saving involved as well! I saved a whole hemisphere," he preens. She doesn't blink. "Well, a country." Silence. "City, really." River neatly raises an eyebrow, and the Doctor huffs. "Well, not so much a city as a small town…house."

"A townhouse," she repeats flatly.

"The residents were very grateful!" he insists. She bites her lip to keep a straight face. "Fine. Resident. But he gave me a hat!" His face falls. "Amy took it."

"Good for her."

"Oi! What is it with you and my hats?"

"They're just such easy targets, sweetie."

"Yeah, on my head!" he protests, pointing wildly to his hair. "Targets _on my head!_ "

"Afraid I'll miss?" she teases.

"Not _intentionally_ ," he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest for a moment, then unfolding them. He shifts, hooks one leg other the other, shifts again, then puts both feet flat on the floor. River smiles gently, easing him back into conversation. 

"As glad as I am for the resident of the townhouse," she begins.

"Hey! It could have been a whole town!"

"- our location isn't what I meant." He frowns. "Diaries, sweetie."

"Oh! Right." He presses both hands to his chest, as if realising he'd forgotten something. "Um."

"Have we done Heiradi?" He shakes his head. "East Taiwan?" Another negative. River sits up, pulling her hand away from the Doctor, her shoulders tensing. "Doctor… you _do_ know who I am?"

"What?" 

She inhales sharply.

"Oh! Yes! Yes, all caught up with the prison and the dying and the marrying." He smirks, but at the same time feels a prick of guilt for the relief that washes over her face. "Sorry," he says quickly, scuffing his shoes against the floor. "Ah, last time I saw you was Muscolane - I still can't get the smell out of my jacket," he bemoans, sniffing the inside of his new one and releasing a happy sigh at the pleasant odour. 

His expression falters when he sees her face, just a little less bright than it was moments ago. 

"Ah," she intones carefully, moving away from him. "Early days for you then."

The Doctor sputters. "Early? How am I early, we're all timey whimey and and handcuffs and- and- and married! How do you do later than married!"

She smiles gently. "You'll see." He starts to protest when she moves, scooting off the other side of the bed and grabbing her boots. "I should go."

He watches her for a moment, the curve of her spine beneath the familiar olive-coloured dress, the way her hair settles over her shoulders. It's longer than he remembers from the last time. 

"Where are you, River?"

She peers at him over her shoulder as she tugs on a shoe. "I'm right here."

"You know what I mean."

It's barely perceptible, but he catches it nonetheless: her hands falter, shaking just slightly before she settles them firmly in her lap. "Demon's Run," she says, "About three months ago." There's a long, aching pause before her voice drops and she turns away. "I haven't seen you since."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. 

She shakes her head and throws him a too-wide smile. "I get 'round just fine on my own."

"I have no doubt."

There's a pause, taught and thin, between them, both waiting for the other. River fiddles with her holster and belt, securing them both around her waist as she rounds the bed toward him. The Doctor taps his feet on the floor and tries to look anywhere except at her, but his eyes keep drawing back, sneaking glances against his will. 

He wants her to stay. 

The desire and apprehension coil around his lungs. He stands abruptly and turns to face her, ready to say something - _anything_ \- when she speaks.

"I should probably go before Amy and Rory wake u--"

"They're asleep." He blurts out, stumbling over his words in a rush. "Lots of running and fighting and saving - and Amy had a fair bit of exercise destroying my hat, and Rory, well, Rory's not as Roman as he used to be and it's not really morning, you know. I mean, it's morning somewhere, but it could just as easily be afternoon or evening or Second Midnight, as some planets do."

She stares at him blankly, but her breathing hitches just slightly. "Doctor?"

He bites his lips and scratches his head nervously. "I mean, I can drop you somewhere if you--"

She quickly interrupts. "No, I just-- I--" She shrugs lightly, deceptively casual, but her voice is soft, soften than he's ever heard it, and it makes his heartbeat stutter. "I came here to see you, my love. I just expected an older you, is all. Though I must admit you're handling this rather well."

He blinks and looks up sharply. "Handling what?"

Her lips curl up slightly. "In case you hadn't noticed, we are in your bedroom."

"I can think of worse places for you to be."

The moment he says it he freezes, staring across at her with wide eyes and a tinge to his cheeks. He thinks about backtracking, inserting some sort of qualifier, but then she smiles, just barely, just the corners of her lips turned up and her eyes soft and slightly downcast and her expression is so genuine, free of any teasing or sadness or lies; and she looks so beautiful, so perfectly content with his words and the moment between them that he can't bear to break it - to see that mask slip back into place. 

So he does the only thing that makes any sense - closing the space between them, he rests a hand on her arm tentatively and kisses her, a simple brush of his lips against hers. One of her hands mimics his, her fingers curling around his jacket near his shoulder while her other arm snakes between them, palm pressed flat over his hearts. 

After a moment he pulls away slightly, dropping his forehead to hers. The hand on his shoulder reaches up to cup the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. 

"Hello," he murmurs. 

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles. "Hello, sweetie."

He grins, instinctively moving closer and placing his free hand on her hip. "I like it when you call me that."

"I know."

"I know you know." He moves back just enough to meet her gaze, his voice quiet. "Demon's Run, eh?"

"For the second time."

"Are you all right?"

"Are you?" she counters. He hesitates, and she kisses him briefly in reassurance. "Not one line, my love. Not even one."

He inhales shakily but nods. "I promise." 

Whether or not it's a lie, he doesn't yet know. But she seems appeased, stepping back slightly, trailing her hands down his arms to tangle with his. "You look tired."

Straightening up, he gives an indignant huff. "I'm a Time Lord, I don't get tired."

"Of course not, my love."

"Don't humour me with that humoured tone of humouring, River Song."

She smoothes down his bow tie. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Hesitating, the Doctor catches her eye, then quickly looks away. 

Frowning, River tightens her grip on his hand. "Doctor?" 

"If I - _we_ \- were to sleep - and I'm not saying _I_ need to - is there any chance-- chance you'd, um... Still be…here when I, you know, hypothetically, woke up? Not that I'll need to, because I won't sleep, of course."

"Of course," she agrees teasingly. 

He swallows the lump in his throat. "Well?" 

"I'd say the odds are in your favour, if you like."

He almost giggles at that, a reaction she's come to love, before tugging her hand toward the bed. He sits down, bouncing slightly, before taking off his shoes, jacket, braces and bow-tie. River follows suit, curling up next to him on top of the covers as soon as he lies down. He rolls over, facing her, and reaches out to toy with an errant curl. 

"I'm not going to sleep, you know," he says quietly. "I'm just closing my eyes for a minute; my eyebrows are sore."

"What eyebrows?" 

He cracks one eye open. "Oi!"

River chuckles softly and inches closer, gripping his hand in hers as he tucks his head under her chin. "Sleep, my love," she murmurs, brushing her fingers through his hair. "I won't tell a soul."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: see part one

"Okay. Right. Well," he says, "The good news is the TARDIS isn't that far, and if we make a run for it after the last rotation, we'll probably get there before morning and anyone finds out we're missing." 

River tests the far wall of the cell, searching for weaknesses. "And the bad news?" 

He turns, sonic in hand, and waves it over his shoulder toward the door. "Wooden lock." 

" _Seriously?_ " 

"It's not my fault certain civilizations haven't embraced metal yet!" he almost whines, whacking the sonic against his palm in a vain attempt to get it to work. "Besides, we wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't _shot the High Chancellor._ " 

River scoffs, tapping her knuckles against an indented stone. "I barely scratched him." 

"I think it's the intent they imprisoned us for," he returns hotly. 

"They were going to kill her!" she protests, glaring at him heatedly. "I wasn't going to just _stand_ there." 

The Doctor sighs, running a hand through his hair briefly before he turns to face her. "We don't always have a choice, River," he says, as gently as possible. "Sometimes we have to just--" 

She scoffs loudly and moves to another section of the wall searching the wall for crevasses deep enough to hold onto. "Coming from _you?_ " 

"I'm older. I've done…things like this so many times now, it's…it's not always the right choice." 

She stops suddenly, and the surprise on her face and in her tone makes his chest tighten. "You wouldn't have helped her?" 

"I never said that. I'll always help, however I can. Sometimes that means being patient, sometimes it means acting without thinking…sometimes it means making terrible, terrible sacrifices for the greater good." 

He looks away guiltily, and her eyes widen in realisation. 

"This isn't the first time they've done this," she says, barely a question. "You wanted to stop them, permanently." She looks down. "And I ruined it." 

Shocked, the Doctor snaps his gaze to her and quickly shakes his head. "Of course you didn't. Why would you say that?" 

River opens her mouth to respond - "I just figured…" - but the rest of the words die on her tongue. The Doctor smiles and steps closer, crooking a finger under her chin to lift her gaze. 

"Nothing happened that can't be fixed," he assures her. "We'll still help, River. And you saved _her_ , even when I might not have--" 

She shakes her head, touching his shoulder briefly in comfort. "You'd have found a way." 

She sounds so sure that for a moment, he almost believes it. 

"So," she begins, stepping away and reconsidering the dank walls. "No way out?" 

He grins, slipping his screwdriver back into his pocket. "There's always a way out," he counters, "Just not yet. We'll have to wait until morning."

"Are you going to fill me in this time?" she demands, hands on her hips, pouting just slightly. He tries not to laugh at the image. "I can't actually read your mind, you know. That little detail you mentioned would have helped immensely _before_ I shot the king." 

"High Chancellor," he corrects absently. She rolls her eyes. "But if I'd filled you in, you might not have saved the girl." 

River narrows her eyes, suddenly defensive. "So you're what? Testing me?" 

But the Doctor shakes his head, almost embarrassed. "No. You've proven yourself a thousand times over, River. I'm just…" He shrugs, hands fluttering aimlessly. "letting you find your own way." 

He hesitates, then hazards a glance in her direction. Her shoulders are still tight, her stance tense, but there's a strange look on her face, somewhere between confusion and gratitude. 

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly, a long, gentle silence stretching between them before the Doctor whirls suddenly, rubbing his hands together gleefully. 

"Right then! We need a plan. Ooh, planning shenanigans, I love this part, this is the best part. And together!" He bops her on the nose. "Extra betterness." 

River smirks in amusement. 

The Doctor moves around her, pushing against the wall and pressing his ear against the stones. She's about to inform him she tried that already when he frowns, licks his finger and holds it up toward the high, barred window.

"Another thing I failed to mention," he starts nervously, scratching his chin. "The rotation of this planet's a lot slower than Earth's, due to the gravitational pull of the fourteen surrounding moons and a bit of a- a- a… _sticky wicket_ , if you will…with a meteor about sixteen hundred years ago." He pauses and wrinkles his nose slightly in consideration. "Well, I say _meteor_ , what I _really_ mean is more of a sun that accidentally went supernova…and then collapsed into a black hole when I tried to redirect its course." 

River arches an eyebrow at him, looking both amused and unimpressed. "Accidentally." 

"I apologised!" he insists, waving his arms carelessly. "The point is, the seasons here tend to be a bit…well, manic…well, I say manic, what I really mean is…every, oh, forty-eight hours. Give or take." 

"Forty-eight hour seasons." 

"Yes." 

"So when I commented earlier about the heat and you ridiculed me for it…" 

"That was actually a reasonable observation, yes." 

"Ah." 

"The point is, the planet goes through seven seasons in approximately fifty-two hours and nineteen minutes, and we've been here twenty-six hours and-" he checks his watch. "-eleven minutes, in which case we have about six minutes before the season of Sclet begins." 

"And Sclet is…"

"The coldest season recorded on every planet from here to Alvega within the last twelve centuries." 

"Which would explain the lack of other prisoners or holding cells I noticed earlier."

"Yes."

"Another observation you insulted me for."

He sighs dramatically. "I was trying to _distract_ you." 

"From the fact that everyone who's ever been held captive here…"

"Froze to death." 

"Ah."

"Precisely." 

"Well." 

"Yes."

She pauses, then adds in all seriousness: "That certainly is a sticky wicket." 

The Doctor opens his mouth to respond, then notices the expression on her face - tight muscles, bright eyes, lips pursed in a barely contained smirk. He glares. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?" 

Her smirk turns into a wide smile, disproportionate to her consoling tone. "Just a bit, sweetie."

"It's a good word!" he protests, shaking a finger at her. "A perfect word, in fact." 

"Actually it's two words." 

"I know it's two words." 

"I never said you didn't." 

She's smiling, a soft, almost fond lift to her lips as she meets his gaze, and he can't help but admit that he's come to love that expression - not the coy smirks or teasing lilts, though he loves those too, but simply the free, relaxed expression she wears so rarely when she's this young. They're both young, an older version of herself had assured him, both young and just beginning and he can't help but marvel at that, their strange synchronisity. 

He realises after a moment that he's staring, still smiling in return; she looks away when she notices, all her quick bravado crumbling in the intimacy of the moment, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. 

It's one of the most endearing, heart-warming sights he's seen in a long, long time. 

A sharp gasp draws him away from his thoughts, and he suddenly notices the temperature - freezing cold and dropping rapidly. River's eyes widen and she instantly wraps her arms around her centre, curling in on herself. Frost covers the ground and stone and door in a matter of seconds, and he barely has time to cross to her side before she's shivering. 

"Oh," she gasps out, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The Doctor quickly pulls her into a corner of the cell and tugs her with him to the floor. "What are y-you doing?" 

"We'll have to share body heat if we want to stay warm," he says, pulling off his jacket and forcing her into it despite her protests. River tenses under his touch, pulling away slightly. 

"River?" 

She swallows, torn between the warmth radiating from his body and the panic in her throat, the voice in her head telling her to stay far, far away. 

The Doctor frowns, cataloguing his motions, his words, searching for a trigger. She shudders suddenly and he instinctively pulls her in, a hand curled around her upper arm and she jumps at the contact more than the cold. 

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, the words unbidden and hoarse. 

She looks up sharply, eyes wide with guilt. "No -- no, Doctor, I _know_ that," she assures him; she wants to touch him, but her hands are frozen and curled into fists. "No, it's just--" She shivers again, and her words dissipate. 

The Doctor worries his lip and taps his foot against the icy floor. "River," he starts carefully, "You have done the Borous Islands?" She tilts her head up to look at him. "I mean. We have... _you know_...together...and, um..." 

He looks so nervous that she can't help but smile, even though the cold burns her lips. "Yes." 

The Doctor exhales in relief, then wrinkles his forehead in confusion. "Then…" 

She shrugs, willing her body to relax, to move closer. "I don't know," she admits, barely above a whisper. "I've never…" she starts, then bites her lip. "I never stay - or stayed - I suppose, so I've never just…" 

Nodding slowly, the Doctor presses a kiss to her forehead in silent acknowledgement of her confession. "Well, I'll have you know that cuddling, River Song, is the absolute best part of being in a relationship." 

She laughs shortly. "Oh, really?" 

"Absolutely," he says firmly, pressing her closer. She moves warily, slowly adjusting to his proximity, his arm heavy and warm around her waist. "Other parts are good too, of course, but cuddling is a wonderful way to show affection." Pause. "And, in this case, not die of hypothermia." 

"There is always that." She sighs, shifting close enough to rest her head on his shoulder, their torsos and legs aligned. "I have to admit, I thought for a minute that this scenario fell under Rule One." 

The Doctor blinks in confusion. "Why would I lie about this?" 

"I don't know," she manages, teeth chattering against each other. "I figured you were aiming for a conjugal visit or something." 

"A what?" Pause. Splutter: "No! What-- no! _River!_ " He lowers his voice to a hiss. "We can't do _that_ , we're in _prison!_ " 

She tries to answer, but her body's shaking and her throat already hurts from the icy air. The Doctor repositions his arm around her under his jacket, running his hand up and down her side. He coaxes her carefully to slide her legs over his, initiating as much body contact as possible.

"A-aren't you c-cold?" she manages, face pressed into his neck for warmth. 

"A bit," he lies, suppressing a shudder, "But I'm a Time Lord, my physiology's more advanced, more easily adaptable. You've got those pesky humany bits in you." He pauses. "Sorry about that." 

He imagines her rolling her eyes, but she says nothing, just tucks her face into his neck. She's quiet a long time, and he keeps careful track of her breathing, making sure she doesn't drift off. It's a comfortable silence, but something nags at him, an uncomfortable knot in his chest that won't come undone; her words, vice-like around his hearts. 

She seems to sense this, somehow, and nudges him with her shoulder. "Doctor?" 

He remains silent, hesitant and unnerved. It's all still new, still strange and brilliant and beautiful and he doesn't want to wreck it, he finds, this fragile thing between them. But she's waiting, she's always waiting, and he owes it to her, if not this her than another her in time; he owes her honesty. 

"I'd never ask you to leave, you know," he says finally, so quietly, just barely a murmur against her hair. "I'd never want you to." 

She doesn't respond. The seconds stretch out, taught and wiry, and his breath catches in his throat and clings there. Her muscles tense and her shoulders draw back and in the minutes after that she doesn't move at all. He's made her angry, somehow; insulted her independence or her past or some hidden part of her he's still learning. He's ruined something; ruined at the very least the moment between them. 

"River," he begins, trying to find a way to apologise, to back out; and then he feels it, soft against his neck, a single tear almost hot against his chilled skin. She doesn't face him or reply, but her hands snake under his shirt, one on his chest and one on his back and she curls herself into his side, lips fluttering a kiss over his pulse. 

By the time the door opens the next morning and the guards come in, their skin has warmed and her lips aren't blue and when they make their escape, she grabs _his_ hand as they run.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: see part one

"No, no, no that's all _wrong!_ Red to green, fuchsia to orange, and the fish goes into the swimming pool!"

"It's _not_ a fish."

"It _looks_ like a fish." 

"It's a tricorder environmental adaptor, and I'm _telling_ you, if you plug it into the engine feedback loop you're going to blow out the whole second floor - including the _actual_ swimming pool."

"It's not going to "blow out" the swimming pool."

Calmly: "It's going to blow out the swimming pool."

Glowering: "You know, I think after 1200 years I'd know by now how to fix _my_ TARDIS." 

"Sweetie, if you knew how to _fly_ your TARDIS, we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place."

"Oi! I fly her perfectly! If you hadn't pushed the blue boringers--"

" _Stabilisers._ "

" _Boringers,_ " he stresses, "I wouldn't have had to counter-act the tail spin with a third-dimensional compression coil _or_ jettison the cricket strip!" 

"You don't even play cricket!" 

"Yes, but I know _how!_ " 

River rolls her eyes and refocuses her attention on the underside of the console. "And I know twelve ways to kill you with a deck of cards and a post-it note, that doesn't mean I'm going to try it."

The Doctor makes a strangled noise of protest. "Those are not even remotely the same!" 

"They're going to be the same if you don't fix the heating system in the next--" She pauses, listening to the groan of the engines.

"Three minutes," he supplies. 

She glares. "Three minutes."

Huffing, the Doctor sticks a thin cable in his mouth to peel back the lining with his teeth, then tangles the bare wires with those dangling from the console. Sparks shower and he covers his face with his arms. On the floor next to him, River lets out a yelp and jumps, nearly banging her head on the console. 

"Doctor!" 

"Oops." 

River glowers, but the attempt is somewhat mitigated by her appearance - her hair in disarray and slightly burned in places, her face nearly covered with soot, save for the skin under her bright pink goggles. He does his best not to laugh.

"I hate you."

"You don't," he says merrily, shifting into a more comfortable position on his back and continuing to rewire and unwire and move things around. Grumbling under her breath, something about making _him_ wear the pink ones next time, River mimics his actions. 

Despite the urgency - the steadily rising temperature being the most pressing concern for the moment - they work in companionable silence for a few moments, mending bits and adding bits and anticipating the other's needs before asked. River hands him a rubber wench and the Doctor trades her for a piece of silly string, letting his hand linger over hers a touch longer than they have time for, earning himself a smile. 

"All right," he declares finally, wiping his arm across his forehead and pushing his goggles down around his neck. His hair is damp with sweat, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, shoes and socks discarded. "That should do it," he says, wiggling out into the open. He jumps up and checks the scanner. "Did you attach the fish?" 

Muffled: "It's not a fish." 

Bending at the waist, he glares at her upside down. "River, you have to attach the coupling to the inverted blue outlet that looks like a swimming pool."

"It doesn't look like a swimming pool."

"It doesn't matter what it looks like, just attach it!" 

"It doesn't _go_ there."

"Of course it goes there!" 

"It connects to the ninth and twelfth thermo-conduits, if you just give me a moment--"

Scrambling back under the console, nearly on top of her, he grabs the cable out of her hands. "It _goes_ in the blue outlet!" 

She snatches it back. "It does not!" 

"River!" 

She rolls away, taking the wiring with her. The Doctor protests, grabbing at her side and trying to pull her back toward him. He thinks she's laughing at him, but over their scrabbling he can't quite be sure; he bangs his head several times, alternating whining and snapping at her to give it back. 

"River, we've only got thirty seconds, just put the fish in the swimming--"

"It doesn't go in the--"

"Oh, for blimey-- _River!_ "

Snaking an arm out from underneath him, River snaps the cable into place above their heads, resulting in a few sparks and a jerk from the TARDIS. Then nothing. 

"There," she says. "See?" The temperature begins to drop rapidly, and River looks up at him smugly. "I told you it wasn't a fish." 

Torn momentarily between the press of her body against most of his, and the unrealised yet imminent consequences of what she's (unwittingly) just done, he freezes. River licks her lips. He tries not to shudder as her hands grip his waist, hot skin on hot skin and he can feel her breath on his face, now, and she really isn't wearing much anymore - a tank top and jeans and even in _goggles_ she's sexy, which really is unfair -- and then the TARDIS jolts and flips sideways and they're both rolled out across the floor, still tangled together, crashing against the railing. 

River grapples for the handrail, tearing the goggles off her face. "What the hell was that?" 

The Doctor grabs her hand, hoisting himself up next to her only to be tossed across the floor again. He grabs hold of the console as the TARDIS shifts dramatically, and the room begins to thrum with a loud, scratching sound. 

"Doctor!"

"Aaah," he mutters, flailing around the floor, flipping levers as he goes. "I told you it goes in the swimming pool!"

Shouting over the steadily rising noise: "That's impossible! Environmental circuits go in nine and twelve - _she_ told me!"

"You're taking her side now?" 

"She's the pilot!" 

Indignantly: " _I'm_ the pilot!" 

The TARDIS jerks and River is thrown across the glass floor, stumbling, thankfully, into the chair. "Not a very good one!" 

He groans loudly. "If you had just done what I told you--" 

"I'm telling you, it was the wrong--"

Over the now deafening noise, the Doctor waves his hands spastically and finally shouts: "Yes, but I rerouted the sensor cables six years ago from twenty one to thirty six!" 

River clings to the scanner, using it to propel her around the console next to him. How she gets her voice to be so loud and so dangerously low at the same time, he has no idea. "You _what?_ " 

"There was a ditch and an army and a bit of - of - of straw in the zig-zag plotter and I couldn't well be expected to- to- to-" The TARDIS jerks and he breaks off. "It was an emergency!" he defends himself. 

" _This_ is an emergency!" 

"Well it wouldn't have been if you hadn't hit the blue boringers!" 

River practically growls in frustration, swinging herself around to the other side to type a few commands on the typewriter. "Can we figure out who's to blame _after_ we get your ship settled down?" 

"Oh, so when she misbehaves she's my ship, but when she does what you want--" 

"This really isn't the time, sweetie!" 

"I can multitask perfectly well, you know!" 

River shoots him a meaningfully raised eyebrow. "No, you really can't." 

Spluttering: "It's not my fault you're all distracting with- with- with- your hair and your- your face and- and- and other parts!" Pointing a finger at her. "So, really, _you_ started it!" 

"You're the one who set me down on the tribophysical waveform macrokinetic extrapolator!" 

"And if _you_ hadn't done that- that- _thing_ with your tongue I probably wouldn't have hit the Easter Egg finder!"

"You don't need an Easter Egg finder!" 

"It's pretty!" 

"My mum's pretty too, I don't see you trying to keep _her_ around!" 

"If I had this wouldn't be happening!" 

The TARDIS jolts and the Doctor crashes into River, grabbing her around the waist in an attempt to keep her steady. Instead, the room lurches again and the both crash into the railing, then back into the console. River, barely missing a beat, shifts the red lever up and slams her hand down on the stabilisers. With one last jolt the TARDIS stills abruptly, and the horrendous noise stops. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, River turns to him sharply, breathing heavily. The Doctor straightens his shoulders primly and returns her look. 

They both burst into laughter. 

The Doctor's hair stands straight up, his braces are tangled around his legs, and his goggles are dangling backwards around his neck. River looks equally if not more haphazard, her hair full of static and the occasional piece of silly string, but her smile is bright and her cheeks are red, and she's still laughing when he grabs her waist and kisses her hungrily. Her arms come up around his shoulders instantly as she tugs him closer, and also away from the console. 

"Good plan."

"I know." 

Trailing kisses down her neck: "We should take this somewhere a bit-" She bites his earlobe and he moans. "-more horizontal. And-" Kiss. "you know-" Kiss. "safer." 

"Boring," she breathes, hands wandering down his back. 

"But comfy."

She chuckles, pulling back enough to kiss his lips again, this time deeper and slower, her hands caressing the skin above his trousers. 

He's about to start steering them down the hall - he can think of eight rooms on the first floor with practical, fairly reliable horizontal surfaces - when he hears something. He stops, pressing a finger to her lips briefly, and listens. It's soft, barely audible, but it's growing louder, and if he's not mistaken, the floor is beginning to vibrate. 

"Doctor?" 

"Do you hear that?" 

She listens, then frowns. "It sounds like..." 

They exchange glances. 

"It can't be." 

"Well..." 

Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Please tell me you at _least_ remembered to isolate the sensor cables when you moved them?" 

The Doctor scratches his cheek. "Well, not so much isolate, really, as...well. Not isolate." 

"Can we land?" 

Skidding over to the console, he throws a few levers. "Safety protocol's engaged." 

"Open the doors?" 

"Without being exposed to the hard vacuum of the Vortex?" 

She throws her hands up. "So what do we do?" 

The Doctor looks up at the hallway, toward the increasing sound, and shrugs. "Hold on?" 

River sighs, exasperated, but grips his hand all the same. "I don't care how much you love the tide simulator," she says, just as the room begins to shake in earnest, "Next time, we're getting rid of the swimming pool." 

"Agreed." 

It's the last thing said before a large hatch in the ceiling bursts opens, and the room is completely flooded.

\--

"You know," the Doctor muses, stroking a hand through her hair, "It was scientifically proven in the 32nd century that sleeping in a water-based environment was better for your health than a foam or spring mattress." 

River grunts her disapproval into his chest. "We are not getting a water bed." 

Steering their make-shift flotation device away from the wall with one arm, the Doctor pouts. "But look how comfy this is!" 

River doesn't even attempt to lift her head; the last time she moved, she wound up with an elbow in her oesophagus. 

"We're floating on a jury-rigged sofa cushion in your flooded TARDIS." 

"So?"

The water is draining, thankfully, but slowly; they're about halfway from the ceiling, now, but they've got hours to go. Hours of not moving, which, she has to admit, she is fairly impressed he's managed to refrain from. 

Then again, having all her body weight directly on top of him probably helps. 

"Your sofa was made for one person, dear." 

Grinning, the Doctor wraps both arms around her back, getting her nearly dried shirt wet in the process, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

"I think it's the perfect size."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: see part one

When she opens the door, the TARDIS is silent. He's there, she knows he's there; she can feel his presence, his mind, low and trembling waves. It sets her on edge immediately, and she closes the door behind her and quickly sends them into the vortex.

"River?"

She turns; he's at the bottom of the stairs, braces undone, shirt sleeves rolled up, frowning. "How did you get here?"

"You picked me up."

"No I didn't."

He looks confused. Almost disappointed. His usual grin and excitement are absent, and his apathy makes her cold. She tries not to flinch. "Then how--” 

He waves her off. “TARDIS must have done it on her own. And since you’re here...” 

Skipping up the steps, he slings his arms back into his braces and flicks a few switches on the console for show. It’s a familiar gesture, but there’s something missing - a spark, a light, whatever it is that makes his skin hum and his mouth twitch, like he’s always smiling. She watches him intently, but his demeanour doesn’t change, and even though it’s slight and even though he lies so well, she knows. 

There’s something missing. 

"Where to? Time Lady’s choice.”

She narrows her eyes. "You never let me choose. What's going on?"

"What? I can't take a ride in the passenger seat?”

"You can, but you never do."

He shrugs, forcing a too-wide smile. "Thought I'd give it a go. Pick a place, any place. Wardrobe’s down the hall if you need a change; you know the drill."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he's already disappearing back underneath the console. River waits a moment, and when he doesn't return, slips away.

\--

His voice filters down the hall long before he appears in the doorway. "What's taking so long? I know the wardrobe is extensive, every period imaginable on every planet, it's all quite entertaining but usually she at least narrows down the selection so it shouldn't take _this_ long to--" He halts in the doorway and frowns. She’s still in her her prison clothes, even her shoes. She’s holding a brown dress in her hands absently, like she’s forgotten it’s there. "You haven't changed. Why haven't you changed? Don't tell me you can't find anything, I know you're particular but--"

"I should go back."

He blinks. "Go back?"

She turns to face him. "To Stormcage. This isn't our usual time, and the guards--"

The Doctor waves his hand absently. "They'll get used to you coming and going at all hours."

"But I--"

He grins smugly. "Spoilers."

“Oh.” Instead of her usual annoyed, yet bemused reaction, River only nods. "Well. Regardless." She shakes her head, setting the dress aside. "You're busy."

There's a pause. The Doctor looks around pointedly, raising and dropping his arms to his sides. "Do I look busy?"

"If there's somewhere else you'd rather be or something you'd rather be doing--"

"There isn't."

"--you don't need to feel obligated to chauffeur me around--"

He wrinkles his nose. " 'Chauffeur' ?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't, actually," he says, a bit too harshly, and River folds her arms across her chest. She hasn't moved, and the space between them makes no sense. Even young, she's always close, unrepentant in her violation of his personal space. He's grown used to it, enjoys it, even, and it makes her distance now stark and unsettling.

"Look, I'm only saying I can go, it's fine. You didn't intend to come here anyway, so I understand if you--"

"Oh, stop it, you're being ridiculous; of course I want--"

"Don't patronise me, Doctor," she snaps, "You're obviously not in the mood to entertain so why don't you just say so?"

Direct, uncompromising. So very different from her mother's patient questioning. She stares at him like she's waiting for something, holding her breath, but for the life of him he doesn't know what. What she's missing. What she needs.

Finally he sighs and scratches the back of his head nervously. "Trust you to make it so simple."

"What's complicated about it?"

He doesn't reply. "Do you want to go back to--"

"Do you want me to go back?" 

He hesitates, thrown by the question, its implications, the naked longing in her eyes that disappears faster than she blinks, replaced by a cold, placid expression he's never seen on her before and never wants to see again. Grabbing her bag from the couch, she pushes past him toward the door with barely a nod.

"No," he says, the vocal equivalent of his hand on her arm. He doesn't touch her, though. This young, he rarely does.

"What?"

"I don't want you to go.” 

Surprise. It's gone so fast he almost misses it, but it was there, painful in its simplicity and even worse for the feeling it festers in his stomach; failure. Shaking it off, he smiles self-deprecatingly. "The TARDIS has this wonderfully frustrating habit of taking me where I need to go, even if it isn't someplace I necessarily want to go."

River inhales sharply, visibly hurt, and squeezes her eyes shut. "For god's sake, Doctor, just tell me if you don't want me--" Her throat catches, she falters, and his eyes widen in sudden understanding. She clears her throat quickly and continues, "want me _here._ Don’t want me here."

He wonders if he’ll ever do anything besides hurt her. 

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" He would have thought she was cross, if not for the audible tremor in her voice, and he struggles for an answer, an explanation, a way to tell her everything while revealing nothing.

He goes with the first thing that comes into his head:

"Vegetables."

"What?"

At her confusion, he seizes on the idea. "It's like a kid being forced to eat his vegetables."

River arches an eyebrow. "Vegetables," she repeats. "Are you calling me a--"

"No, no, not like _that_ , it's like…" He paces away from her, scratching the back of his head. "Every kid at the dinner table with a plate of-of-of broccoli or-or-or… carrots or brussels sprouts--" He cringes in disgust. "No matter how good they are for him or how strong they make him, he doesn't want to eat them 'cause they're, you know, _vegetables_ , and they're all green and leafy and tall and _frustratingly beautiful_ and no matter how hard you run away from them they're always _there_ and you always _want_ to go to them but they could get hurt, and they _have_ been hurt, but they're so…new and-and-and wonderful and…scary…" He exhales sharply. "... _scary_ vegetables." 

He chances a look at her face, smiling briefly at the intense, confounded expression. The way her nose crinkles, her eyes narrow; the way he can almost see the time energy hovering above her skin. She's beautiful and graceful and young and he is so, so much none of those things. He's not sure he ever was.

Moving to the long sofa against the far wall, he sits down heavily and folds his hands together over his knees, staring at the floor. There's silence, then he feels the couch dip next to him. The distance is still there, but it’s smaller now, lighter, and he can tell by the way her hands flutter that she wants to touch him. He knows now why she doesn't. "I am so old, River,” he murmurs, “I'm so old, and I've done so many things…"

"Did something happen?" she asks, her voice an almost-substitute for a caress.

"What?"

"I don't-- I just, assumed, since you were upset before I got here that something…" She shakes her head and sits up straighter. "I mean, you don't have to tell me."

"I'm fine," he assures her. 

She nods. "You're always fine."

Time lord code, he thinks bitterly. Instead he asks, "Where are we, for you?" She allows the change in subject.

"Got back from Tyros yesterday. Before that was the Hanging Gardens, and before that was prison. Not mine.” He raises an eyebrow in question, but she only smirks. “You?"

"I...I haven't done the last one," he admits. "And Tyros was a while ago."

She studies him quietly for a moment. "You ran."

He glances over at her. "I always run."

"Whatever happened to Rule Seven?"

"You remember that?"

"I wrote them down."

He smiles. "'Course you did."

She says nothing after that, studying a scuff mark on the floor with disproportionate intensity. He takes the opportunity to study her, the way her hair falls across her cheek, the slope of her shoulder, the veins of her hands. Physically she’s the same as he remembers, same as the woman who whispered his name and dove from a ship and stole his hearts though she knew she already had them. She looks the same, and he has to remind himself again and again that she isn’t there, not yet. She can’t read him the same way yet; doesn’t know that one day she’ll be able to simply look at him and know; that she’ll have an answer for every question and a salve for every wound. And it terrifies him that maybe he won’t teach her; that the young woman before him will remain guarded and he’ll remain scared and they’ll never learn about each other the way they need to. The way he needs right now. 

But then she turns, fixing him with a steady look. "You can tell me if you want, you know," she says eventually. "If something's happened.” She’s guessing, he knows, but it’s a good guess. A perfect guess. “Not like I have any place to judge, at least, and I…" She abandons the sentence and shrugs.

"What?" he coaxes, curious but also wary, careful of her mind and hearts. Young, he thinks, watching the way her fingers wring together nervously, the way she chews on the inside of her lower lip. But she’s calm, steady; bitter still, he knows, and broken, but no longer volatile. Not quite as afraid. _Young and old,_ he thinks to himself. _Just like you._

"I didn't really have anyone to talk to, growing up,” she says, deceptively casual. “Amy and Rory, of course, but they weren't…” She lifts one shoulder. “I didn't want to scare them. I imagine it's the same for you sometimes. Keeping things quiet to protect them from yourself.” A knowing glance: “And, to protect yourself, too."

He shuts his eyes - "There's a lot you don't know, River." - and when he reopens them she’s staring at him, warm and assuredly.

"You can't scare me," she declares, with a conviction that makes his bones ache. "I know what you've done. I know quite well what you're capable of, I've lived through it. And I'm still here.”

"Yes, you are. River…" He doesn't want to know, but he can't stop himself from asking. "Why?"

The simplest thing: "Because I killed you and you still cared. You tried to protect me."

"I failed."

"You tried. You never gave up. The universe can believe what it'd like about you, but you try to be good. You try so hard."

"It's not always the thought that counts, River," he reminds her, unable to keep the bitter memories from scarring his tone. But River only shakes her head and leans back into the cushions, staring straight ahead. 

"Before I regenerated into "Mels", I was living on the streets in New York. Alone, barely a child." An imperceptible shudder crawls over her skin, and she turns to face him. "Do you have any idea how many people passed me by? How many people saw me on the streets and kept walking, or looked away, or pretended they hadn't seen anything? Up until Berlin, I thought you were one of them. Just another soldier."

Guilt presses his shoulders into his frame, but she moves, catching his gaze, forcing her sincerity upon him whether he wants it or not. Whether or not he deserves it. "But you aren't,” she murmurs, a promise. “You would have seen me. You would have helped. You'd have _tried._ I know that now.” Not just a thought, or an understanding, he knows, but a belief, stronger than faith, and so much more than hope. He doesn’t think there’s a thing he could do in this life or his next to convince her otherwise. “What more can any of us ask for? Than to have one person in our lives who won't give up, no matter what?"

Despite himself, he smiles. "Like your parents."

"You inspired them more than you know."

"I can't take all the credit."

"No, but--" 

He moves, capturing her lips with his, his hand curled around her jaw, gentle but firm as he holds her to him, coaxing, grateful. Her words echo, somehow louder, clearer, more alive than the words in his own head; the guilt and hate and grief bowing out, just for a moment, to make room for her love.

She waits for him to end the kiss, then pulls back slightly, just enough to see his face. "What was that for?"

"Have I ever told you you're amazing?" 

She smiles, a real, almost shy smile, and places a hand on his knee. 

"You're amazing," he murmurs.

"So are you, Doctor."

He thinks, maybe, coming from her, he might someday believe it.

He kisses her again, a quick press of lips, then sits back, gripping her hand. "So. What do you think? New Himalayan Mountains? Old Dorchester? The Isle of Proo is lovely this time of year -- well, actually it smells like sewer and half the people are cannibals, but if you can get past that part it’s really an enjoyable isle-planet."

River chuckles, leaning back into the sofa and he follows instinctively, resting his head just under her shoulder. With her free hand, she runs her fingers through his hair. It’s so familiar to him that it takes a moment to register that it can’t be for her; her fingers stutter lightly, unsure, and he loves her all the more for her bravado. "We could stay here if you like."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. Talk?" He stares up at her quizzically for a long moment, then laughs. She joins him, brightened by the sound, and slaps his shoulder. "Oh, shut up."

"Make me."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't tempt me,” she mutters. “I just mean, we don't always have to go adventuring if you're not feeling up to it."

Wiggling down to get more comfortable, the Doctor lets out an indignant huff. "Oi! I am always up for adventuring. Adventuring's my middle name."

She pats her thumb against the side of his hand. "Yes, you look positively overwhelmed with anticipation."

"I will be," he insists. "Your shoulder is just…really, really comfortable."

She suppresses a laugh. "That's not my shoulder, sweetie."

Muffled: "Shut up."

"Make me." 

Without warning he turns, grips her by the waist and drags her under him, half off the couch, stayed by his body pressing firmly against hers. "Doctor!" She laughs, squirming, and the sound is prettier than any song, any melody. He kisses her again, letting the sound melt into his skin. Her hands find purchase at his back, holding him close, kissing him back with a tenderness that leaves him breathless. 

Just as suddenly he jumps up, grabbing her hand and tugging her to her feet toward the door. "Asro! That's where we're going. You'll love it; they've got caves and shops and shops in caves and-- Wait." He stops halfway down the hall and takes in her appearance. "You can't wear that, we'll get exiled."

"Excuse me?"

"Quick, quick go change, the TARDIS will show you what you need." He gives her a shove in the direction of the wardrobe, grinning as she stumbles before righting herself. She grumbles under her breath, but follows his direction, halfway back before he calls her name. She turns, surprised to see him still standing there, staring at his shoes. His giddy, childlike enthusiasm has been abruptly replaced by quiet conviction, and a hint of desperation. Soft but firm, he meets her gaze: "You are the furthest thing in the universe from an obligation."

She stares, speechless. He nods once, then fidgets, then clears his throat and turns around the corner back to the control room.

It's where she finds him ten minutes later, leaning against the console, unfocused. She approaches quietly, cautiously, and places a hand on his arm.

"It was a family on Truss," he offers finally. "The father died. I couldn't save him."

She nods, squeezing his arm. "What was his name?"

He looks at her, shocked for a moment. But she knows. Of course, she knows. "Randin. His name was Randin."

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, giving him another minute of silence. Then she bumps her hip against his and tugs at his arm. "Come on. I've heard there's a row of shops on this planet that sell nothing but braces and scarves in a variety of materials and colours."

"Ooh, do you think they'll have a fish one? I've always wanted one with fish." He opens the door for her. "Good memories, that."

"Seriously, fish?"

He grins hugely. "Spoilers."

[part five](http://sail-your-sea.livejournal.com/35504.html)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: see part one

“Nesta?” 

“No.”

“The Art-Sun Maker?”

“Nope.”

She frowns. “Dina the Dawner?” 

“Which one?”

“The first one.”

“Wrong.”

“The second one.”

“Still wrong.” She huffs, and he grins against her neck. “Pay attention.” 

“I have been,” she snips, but closes her eyes nonetheless, concentrating on the way his fingers sweep over her thigh in circles and lines beneath the water. She tips her head back against his shoulder, sinking further beneath the foam, warm and weightless. The Doctor continues his patterns, drifting down to her knee, repeating the words. 

“It’s a well-known poem, River,” he admonishes, nipping experimentally at her ear. He grins when she twitches and does it again, followed by brief kisses trailed from her temple down her neck and across her shoulder. 

She hums, half-laughing, and swats his head with a soapy hand. “It’s a bit difficult when _someone’s_ distracting me.” 

“Who is he?” the Doctor returns. She can tell by his inflection that he’s aiming for stern, but his voice is high and giddy as he nudges her shoulder with his nose. “I’ll have him hanged.” 

She snorts.

“I could, you know!” he protests, and she chuckles. 

“Who said it was a man?” 

He pinches the inside of her leg - “Oi, rude!” - and she laughs, resting a hand over his wrist as he continues to trace symbols down her leg, following his motions. 

“You walked right into that one, sweetie.” 

He shrugs, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “I’d walk with you anywhere.” River represses a laugh, but the Doctor’s already frowning, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line. “Bad?” 

“Very bad,” she agrees, but smiles anyway. 

“Or just ill-timed.” 

“And also bad.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Well, I can’t be expected to say brilliant things all the time.”

“And this is your day off?”

“Exactly.”

“As opposed to yesterday, when you tried to convince me bonnets were cool?”

“Bonnets _are_ cool.”

“On babies, dear.”

He flicks water at her. “That’s what I said! And since yesterday I was being brilliant, as usual, and you were being _rude_ , today is the day of non-brilliant, _non-rude_ things. Normal things. Everyday-people things, like baths and cliches.” 

“A whole day, really?”

“Mmm-hmm. An entire day of silly, humany, romanticness.” He tries to bop her nose from behind and winds up poking his finger into her cheek. “Starting now.” 

There’s a long pause.

“I’m waiting.” 

The Doctor scoffs. “Oh, now you want me to perform on command, is that it?”

“Well generally that helps, sweetie, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it if you can’t.”

The water splashes as he flails his arms in protest. “That’s not what I meant!” he sputters, and she doesn’t need to turn to see the red tint to his cheeks and the affronted yet turned-on look in his eyes. She waits, and as predicted he leans in after a moment, lips against her ear and a palm running down her side. “But I’ll have you know I’m _very_ capable of performing in a wide variety of scenarios. In fact, I’m rather spectacular.”

She shivers. “Spectacular, really? I may need proof of that.” 

The Doctor blanches, bravado gone, and pointlessly looks around the room before hissing, “ _Again?_ ” 

River gives a mock-heavy sigh, her eyes closed. “Well, I suppose it can wait, if you’re too tired.” 

The Doctor pokes her in the ribs. “She says, falling asleep in the bath.” River ignores him. “That can be dangerous, you know. You could drown.”

“You’d let me?”

“Never,” he says immediately - then considers. “Well, maybe. But only if you were after my hats.” 

River jabs him in the chest with her elbow, but her tone is amused. “Good to know where I stand in your life, sweetie.” 

“Above fedoras, but below fezzes,” he concurs, and at her snort of derision adds, “They’re _cool._ ” River hums, a very typical wife-like _‘whatever you say, dear’_ -hum that he knows isn’t _really_ an offer of agreement, or an acceptance that she’s wrong and he’s right and fezzes are most definitely _extremely_ cool, but he takes it anyway. “You still haven’t guessed the poem.”

“That’s because it’s not a real poem, you dirty old man.” 

“A limerick is a real poem!”

“It’s a facsimile of a poem, dear.” 

“Edward Lear would beg to differ.” 

“Let’s visit, then, I could use a good row.” 

“Will you take me in tow?”

River moans as she cranes her head to look at him. “Oh god, what have I done?”

The Doctor grins and tightens both arms around her waist. “Now you’re getting it!” 

“Idiot,” she says fondly. 

“Am not.”

“Are too.” She presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “But you’re my idiot.” 

He pretends to consider this for a long moment -“I suppose that’ll do.” - but River just shakes her head.

“You were trying to think of something that rhymes with idiot, weren’t you?” 

He pouts adorably. “I’ve got a hundred and seven, but none of them fit.” 

“Poor thing,” she murmurs, patting his leg beneath the water. 

The Doctor makes a _tsk_ ing noise at her. “You mock, River, but someday a well-constructed rhyme could get you out of a pickle. ...well, a metaphoric pickle, not an _actual_ pickle, mind you. For that you need a hairdryer and a wand made out of Silly Putty. Well. It’s not _actually_ Silly Putty, but--” 

River chooses that moment to shift, re-situating herself further down in the bubbles, her back to his chest, legs between his, her hands resting on his knees. The Doctor swallows and clears his throat, trying to scoot back to give her more room (and not be quite so obvious, really), but there’s nowhere to go. He can’t see her face, but he can tell by her voice that she’s smirking. “Sorry, sweetie, did I interrupt you? You were saying something about wands.” 

“ _Silly Puddy_ wands, River,” he emphasises. “Not exactly an appropriate metaphor.” 

Shifting even further back against him, an intentional sway to her hips, she murmurs in agreement. “No argument here.” 

The Doctor sighs, exasperated, but at the same time slides his hands up over her abdomen to cup her breasts. She moans softly, the pressure of his fingers against her skin, his firm chest at her back, his lips on her shoulder; the ends of her hair are damp, sticking to her neck where he’s brushed them aside, no traces left of prison soap on her skin or dust in her eyes - she smells like marigolds and _him_ and everything is warm and sweet and safe. 

On the back of his hand, she traces out _I love you._

On her thigh, he marks her with the Gallifreyan equivalent of _ditto._

“I’ve changed my mind,” he whispers, resting his chin on her shoulder. 

She peers at him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh?”

“A day isn’t nearly long enough for normal humany stuff.” 

“It isn’t?” she asks. There’s a thread of hope there that he seizes on. 

“Nope. Definitely not. There are all kinds of normal things I haven’t done yet, like build a fence or chew gum while walking, and if baths and cliches alone take up a whole day, I can’t be expected to do more than two or three non-brilliant, humany things per day. So I’ll need a week, at least.” 

She smiles, covering his hands with hers, and tilts her head back to look at him properly. “A week, hmm?” 

He nods, placing a swift kiss to her lips. “Definitely a week. Maybe a month. Possibly longer - depends on the company.” 

“You’re having company?” 

He nods. 

“Should I be jealous?” 

“Very. She’s beautiful and clever, with a naughty sense of humour I shouldn’t love but really do. Brilliant shot, too. Excellent runner. Flies my TARDIS.” As he speaks, his arms tighten around her waist, pulling her into a slippery hug. “Gets on great with my companions.”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“Oh, she is. She’s perfect.” He kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder. “Nothing like you at all.” 

River laughs, a warm, full-bodied sound that makes him giggle proudly against her skin. He loves that sound, for its purity as well as its rarity; perfect happiness. He turns her chin toward him and kisses her, capturing her laughter and swallowing it down as if he could keep it inside him, keep it close. She moves, her mouth slating over his, her body shifting and the water churning as she curls a hand around his neck, pulling him in closer. 

When the kiss ends he pulls back, just enough to press his forehead to hers, to feel the warmth from her blushed, damp skin. 

“Hello,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her nose. 

River cups his face in her hand, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone as she smiles and it’s almost too much - too much acceptance and too much knowledge and too much _love_ staring back at him. Everything she’d give up for him gladly written in a sheen over her eyes, arched in the gentle curve of her lips. 

“Hello, sweetie.”


End file.
